


Darling, We Can All See Your Bloody Feathers on the Floor

by darrinya



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, Illogical Logic, Janus helps Logan accept himself and it’s beautiful, M/M, Self-Hatred, Sherlock Holmes Reference, Sympathetic Janus, Winged Logan, accepting yourself, bullying mentioned briefly, but also humor, canonverse, cos sometimes our logic can be faulty lol, one sexual innuendo but it is a complete joke and no one who is smart will believe it, this is not RPF, tw f slur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27056812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darrinya/pseuds/darrinya
Summary: “Can you feel it?” Deceit whispers. “The pressing, the quivering, the yearning? Your wings are begging you to let them fly for once in your life.”“It’s not logical,” Logic says.In which Logan has wings but refuses to acknowledge them and Janus is done with his bull.
Relationships: Deceit | Janus Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders, Deceit | Janus Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders
Comments: 18
Kudos: 156





	Darling, We Can All See Your Bloody Feathers on the Floor

**Author's Note:**

> Logan thinks of Janus as Deceit because the name reveal has not occurred yet. You can take this as romantic or platonic. I don’t really care which.
> 
> This is for willowaudreykeyes.tumblr.com

Thomas is seven when Logic first notices the blood. 

It’s not real, of course. Logic is the human manifestation of Thomas’s logical core, and the root of the blood is completely unfeasible. 

Logic feels along his back with shaky hands. Where the nubs of his shoulder blades should be, two sharp hooks force their way out of his skin. 

Logic’s hand comes back covered in bloody feathers. 

Logic stares at his hand, then shakes it. He watches blankly as the feathers swirl onto the ground. 

It doesn’t make sense. It’s physically impossible. Ergo, it cannot be real. 

Logic forces his wings back where they belong—out of sight from all who see. 

.

Thomas is ten when Logic has a complete mental breakdown. 

Creativity is shouting at the top of his lungs about _Disney Land_ and _birthday cake_ and _sparkles._

“It’s not Thomas’s birthday,” Logic protests. 

“It doesn’t _have_ to be Thomas’s birthday for him to enjoy birthday cake,” Creativity argues. 

“It’s not one of Thomas’s friends’ birthday, either,” Logic says, frustration bleeding into his voice. 

“Thomas is everyone’s friend!” Morality pipes up from his spot on the stool. His legs knocking against the chair legs, he reaches out his chubby hands for baking ingredients. “So it’s someone’s birthday today, and Thomas should celebrate it!”

Creativity starts cheering, and Logic claps his hands over his ears. 

“That makes _no sense!”_ he snaps. 

Creativity and Morality start shouting over him, both of them speaking without a speck of reason to be heard. 

“S’not about sense! S’bout happiness!” Creativity shrieks. 

“Happiness!” Morality cheers. 

“S’bout _rainbows!”_ Creativity shouts. 

“I LOVE RAINBOWS!!”

Logic opens his mouth to try to explain that _actually,_ birthdays have nothing to do with happiness or rainbows but are instead mere indications that another year since the day of birth has passed. A creeping sensation crawls up his spine, and Logic’s hands reflexively press against his back. 

No. No no no no—

He can feel What Is Not There trying to break through his skin. 

“Guys,” he starts to say. 

“AND PUPPIES AND KITTIES AND UNICOOOOORNS!”

“Unicorns aren’t real,” Logic somehow manages to choke out, his hands pressed desperately against his skin. 

“Don’t be such a stinkiepoo, Logic,” Morality says. “It’s his _birthday.”_

The first few feathers begin to poke through. 

“It’s not his birthday—“

Anxiety pops out of nowhere, and they all scream. 

“Birthdays are just a morbid celebration that we’re one year closer to death,” Anxiety says with a pout. 

Morality starts to cry, and Creativity and Anxiety start _screaming_ at each other, and—

Logic can’t breathe. That Which Is Not Real is this close to breaking through his shirt, and he can feel small trickles of blood collecting on his shirt. 

“I—“

“YOU ALWAYS DO THIS!” Creativity bellows. “You always ruin Thomas’s fun!”

“You never _think,”_ Anxiety hisses. “You’re going to get us _killed_ some day.”

“Typical of you to equate happy times with death,” Creativity retorts. 

Morality sobs as flour floats around him like a storm cloud. He looks like the Pillsbury Doughboy. 

“I just wan’ be friends with everyone,” he wails. 

“Oh, you mean you wanna be friends with criminals?” Anxiety demands. “You wanna be friends with kidnappers? You wanna be friends with people who kick puppies onto the street?”

Anxiety’s voice raises to a hysterical pitch on his last few words, and Logic’s left wing pops out completely.

“IneedtogoI’msorrybye,” Logic blurts out, sinking down as fast as he can. 

No one notices. 

Logic spends nearly an hour forcing his wings back into his skin. His shirt is soaked with blood and sweat and torn to shreds, and his hands won’t stop shaking. 

He can handle this. _He can handle this._ It’s not real—

“You called?” a voice asks, clearly attempting to sound smooth but far too pipsqueaky to pull it off.

Logic’s head shoots up, and his eyes connect with an obnoxious looking brat with scales down half his face and a swishy cape. 

“What do you want, Deceit?” Logic demands. 

“To talk,” Deceit says, his eyes wide with faux innocence. “I do _love_ bonding through solidarity.”

“Go away. I’m busy.”

Deceit takes in the shredded remains of Logic’s shirt and smirks. 

“Clearly,” he says. “Lying to yourself is _such_ a toilsome business.”

Logic’s hand balls up into a fist in his lap. 

“I’m not lying,” he says stubbornly. 

Deceit raises his eyebrow. At least, he tries to. Thomas has not quite figured out the art, so none of the sides can do it, either. 

He says in a particularly oily voice, “Well, if that’s the case, I’m sure it would be _no problem_ for you to show me your wings.”

Logic stiffens, his heart beating rapidly. 

“I don’t have wings,” he says coldly. 

Deceit just laughs. 

“I do _hate it so_ when you lie to me, Logic,” Deceit whispers into his ear before sinking away. 

.

Thomas is thirteen when Logic’s wings start to get out of control. 

They barely stay contained anymore. Throughout the day, Logic can feel bones, muscle, and sinew shifting under his skin, like an itch that he cannot quite scratch. 

The worst of it is when Thomas gets emotional. The less control Logic has over Thomas’s decisions, the more his wings struggle to break free. 

Three boys from Thomas’s history class slam him against the lockers. 

“You _freak,”_ one of them hisses. 

Weirdo. Nerd. Disgusting. Fag. 

Anxiety and Morality are screaming over each other, and Thomas’s breath is becoming increasingly erratic. And Logic . . .

The tips of his wings begin to pierce through his skin. 

“Thomas, you need to calm down,” Logic starts to say. 

“He’s right, you know,” Anxiety snarls. “We are so totally fu—“

“Language!” Morality shrieks. “And Thomas, listen, kiddo, I know this is really upsetting but—“

Logic tries again: “Please just listen to me—“

Thomas’s eyes dart back and forth between Morality and Anxiety, his breath coming in harsh gasps. He’s not looking at Logic. He can’t even _hear_ Logic and—

One of the boys punches Thomas in the stomach, and he doubles over, gasping for air. 

Logic can feel the wings curling up under his skin. The crack of bones and the oddly wet schlick of ligaments and tendons adjusting fill his ears. He strangles a noise that is most definitely not a whimper. 

He can hear Deceit laughing in the back of his mind. 

“Just—just tell them you’re sorry!” Morality says desperately. “Please just—“

“They don’t want an apology. THEY ARE GOING TO KILL US!” Anxiety screams. 

One boy grabs Thomas by his hair and slams Thomas against the locker again, this time head first. He’s talking, but Logic can’t hear him over Anxiety’s and Morality’s cries. 

Where are the teachers? Where are the other students? Why isn’t anyone _doing_ anything?

Logic’s right wing pops as it pushes past his shoulder blade. 

“Leave me alone,” Thomas gasps. “Please please please just—“

One boy knees Thomas in the stomach. 

Logic’s left wing shoots out, crumpling up behind his shoulder. He stumbles back, but no one seems to notice. Obviously. 

Logic’s wings are completely illogical and have no place in this situation. _Logic_ has no place in this situation. 

“JUST HIT THEM, THOMAS!” Anxiety yells. “JUST RUN, YOU IDIOT!”

“This is bad,” Morality whimpers. “This is bad this is bad this—“

Thomas starts to scream, and Logic’s wings break free from whatever pathetic restraint he still exhibited over them. Fueled by panic, Logic retreats back into his room as fast as he can. 

Deceit is waiting for him. 

“You don’t have wings, do you,” Deceit says, his words heavy with honeyed venom. 

Thomas’s screams rip through the mindscape, and the walls of Logic’s room shudder. Logic stumbles to the side, stifling a curse as one crushed wing brushes against the ground. He shouldn't have left. Without his presence, Anxiety’s and Morality’s voices have far too much influence.

He pulls his wings back in, ignoring the frustration in Deceit’s face, and goes back up. 

Thomas needs him. Thomas is scared and in pain, and at the end of the day, anything Thomas feels trumps Logan’s thoughts on the matter. 

.

Thomas is eighteen when Deceit marches into Logic’s room with a determined look on his face. 

“ _Do_ keep torturing yourself by keeping your wings stuffed inside your poor wounded soul,” Deceit sings. “You know how I _love_ it when you lack any and all signs of self-preservation.”

The book slips out from Logic’s hands. He stares at Deceit blankly. 

“Did I stutter?” Deceit asks sweetly. “Let your wings out before I call Creativity down to cut them out from your back.”

“You mean Dark Creativity,” Logic says, pushing up his glasses. 

“Same thing,” Deceit says dismissively. 

“No, it’s not—“

“Well, it _used to be,”_ Deceit snarls. 

Logic clutches his book tightly to his chest, and Deceit glares at him. 

“Wings, Logic,” Deceit orders coldly. _“Now.”_

“Why?” Logic asks. 

Deceit’s hands trace down Logic’s shoulder and back, and Logic tenses on instinct. Deceit’s fingers stop right above the tip of Logic’s shoulder blades. 

“Can you feel it?” Deceit whispers. “The pressing, the quivering, the _yearning?_ Your wings are _begging_ you to let them fly for once in your life.”

“It’s not logical,” Logic says. 

“Oh, yes, love, and everything about _this_ is so realistic,” Deceit says, gesturing around Logic’s room. 

Logic winces. He understands that most rooms do not have stars where a ceiling usually is. He understands that most people don’t think things through the way Thomas does. 

But there’s a difference between having the night sky for a ceiling or an odd mental process and having wings like some kind of half-bird freak. 

“You think that everything’s fine,” Deceit says in an oily voice. “You think that you’re doing what’s right. Darling, you’re hurting yourself. You think I can’t hear the lies you feed yourself about the pain?”

“People don’t have wings,” says Logic. 

“We aren’t _people,”_ Deceit says, fully exasperated now. 

Logic doesn’t know how to explain to Deceit why he can’t let his wings out. Thomas wouldn’t respect him anymore if he did. Creativity would laugh. Morality would worry. And Anxiety . . . 

Logic really doesn’t want to think about what Anxiety would have to say. 

“You don’t have to show them,” Deceit murmurs. “You _don’t_ have to show me.”

Logic closes his eyes. 

Deceit is right. It hurts. It always hurts, no matter what Logic tries to tell himself. He thought it would get better once Thomas stopped getting bullied, but it didn’t matter. His wings still push against his back and claw against his skin. They beg to be seen and felt and _free_. 

“You can’t tell them,” Logic warns. 

“Honey, I’m _Deceit._ I am obviously _such_ a reliable source of information.”

Logic inhales shakily, then lets his wings unfurl. Deceit’s breath hitches. 

“Oh, my,” he says. “I see you have such a _clear understanding_ of how self-care works.”

Logic opens his mouth to shoot back a retort, but Deceit is already placing his hands on one of Logic’s wings. With a loud _crack_ , Deceit straightens the worst break. 

Logic strangles a yelp. 

“This won’t hurt _at all,”_ Deceit says cheerfully. “But it has to be done, I’m afraid.”

Deceit spends the next hour straightening and grooming Logic’s wings. There are so many splits and cracks that Logic completely gives up on pretending that it doesn’t hurt.

Halfway through, tears start to pool in Logic’s eyes and run down his cheeks. He doesn’t make a noise or tell Deceit to stop, though, because he _understands._ It has to be done, and it’s going to hurt. 

“That’s the best I can do for now,” Deceit says, finally pulling away. “I’ll finish later once they’ve had the chance to rest and—oh, _honey.”_

Deceit is facing Logic. He can see the tears still streaming down Logic’s face, and try as Logic might, he cannot stop them from falling. 

“I’m fine,” Logic says, his voice cracking. 

“Obviously,” Deceit says with a scoff. 

He hesitates before tentatively wrapping his arms around Logic, careful to avoid the wings. Logic stiffens, and Deceit pulls away as if he were slapped. 

“Don’t put your wings back in,” Deceit says. 

Logic just looks at him in panic, his eyes wide, horror constricting his throat. If the others see—

Deceit rests his hands on Logic’s wings, and they disappear from view. 

He winks at Logic before sinking away. 

Logic stares at the space where Deceit once stood for a long time. 

.

Thomas is twenty-two, and for some irrational reason, Deceit has decided it’s his duty to fix Logic’s wings. 

Logic lets out a strangled whimper as Deceit massages a spot on his left wing. 

“The knots in this one,” Deceit sighs. “Brilliant thinking, Logic. I _totally_ made it so your wings were invisible so you could cramp them back into your shoulders.”

“They knock into things,” Logic says. “I don’t want to make a mess.”

“Of course, and there’s _no way_ you would get better at control if you would just _listen to me.”_

Deceit moves up to the base of Logic’s wing, where it meets the sharp jut of his shoulder blades. Logic gasps, his head falling back slightly. 

He hates this. He hates how weak he is; he hates how he’s reduced to awkward quivering and smothered noises whenever Deceit touches something that _should not exist._

“”Posture is everything, darling,” Deceit drawls. “Stretch for me?”

This is the part Logic detests the most. His shoulders tensing, Logic begins to unfurl his wings. 

Deceit placed his hands on Logic’s shoulders, gently guiding them back. 

“What part of posture is your simple mind unable to comprehend?” he asks, the biting tone in sharp contrast to the way he touches Logic. “You clearly haven't spent _far too much time_ with Morality and Creativity.”

Clenching his jaw, Logic flings his wings out. He muffles a pathetic cry at the many _pops_ and _cracks_ tracing up and down his wings. 

For a moment, his hands scrabble against the ground, desperate for something, _anything,_ real to hold onto. 

Deceit’s fingers enclose around Logic’s hands. 

“Feels awful, doesn’t it?” he asks in the smug voice he always uses whenever he wants Logic to know he’s being sarcastic. 

They feel stiff. And sore. But they’re admittedly much better than before, looser, and actually in the correct shape. 

Logic has to put the mental brakes on. 

There is no _correct shape_. There are no wings. They’re just a figment of Logic’s sick mind, and the sooner he accepts that, the better. 

Deceit pokes Logic’s cheek. 

“You know I can hear you when you lie, right?” he asks. 

“It hurts,” Logic says before clapping his hand over his mouth, aghast with himself for showing weakness. 

Deceit rubs the tips of Logic’s wings, and Logic shivers. The soft, soothing circles are so different from what Deceit normally does. 

“By all means, Logic, keep ignoring your pain,” Deceit sneers. “It’s not like it’s a warning that you need to take care of yourself or anything.”

A sharp pull hooks Logic’s stomach. Thomas is calling him. 

With a shaky sigh, Logic stands up and starts to pull his wings back in. Deceit grabs his hand. 

“Logic, _don’t—“_

Logic finishes drawing his wings back. 

It still hurts. But it’s a comfortable pain, a pain that he _knows._

Logic does his best to ignore the frustration in Deceit’s eyes as he sinks out. 

.

Thomas is twenty-eight, and Logan can’t catch a break. 

One day. _One day_ without Anxiety popping up and spewing his vitriol everywhere. 

Deceit pulls Logan back until he’s practically sitting in Deceit’s lap. 

“You mean you don’t love my child?” he practically purrs as he kneads one particularly stubborn knot in Logan’s wings. 

Logan groans, his head tipping back and thunking against Deceit’s collarbone. 

He has given up at this point on masking his reactions. 

“I don’t particularly mind hi- _im!”_ Logan’s voice pitches as he hears the _crack_ of bone and cartilage popping back into place. “I just wish he were less— _stars above,_ Deceit!” 

“So,” Deceit says silkily, his fingers ghosting through Logan’s feathers. “Logan, is it?”

“Deceit,” Logan says shortly. A thought occurs to him. “Did you know all along? That I was called Logan?”

“Oh, I knew _nothing_ of your paltry deceptions,” Deceit says. 

Logan blinks in surprise. 

“It wasn’t a deception,” Logan says. 

“It’s not like you _deliberately_ withheld information,” Deceit says in a singsong voice. Logan hears the rustle of feathers drifting to the ground. 

“Thomas never asked,” Logan says. “And neither did you.”

“And you would have _instantly_ responded had I asked,” Deceit says. “You’re right—we are _nothing_ alike.”

Logan hates the lyrical quality of Deceit’s voice that takes hold whenever he tells a lie and _wants_ Logan to know it’s a lie. 

“Then please, do prove your moral superiority,” Logan hisses. 

Deceit’s hands slip down from Logan’s feathers. Logan’s lips thin at the way his wings reflexively reach for the missing touch. 

They sit in silence for a while. 

“I totally saw that coming,” Deceit says with a sniff. 

Logan closes his eyes and lies back. Deceit gently guides him into his lap, stroking his hair with the same tenderness he uses for Logan’s wings. 

“Your ceiling is horrific,” Deceit says, saccharine sweet. 

“Thank you,” Logan says, his eyes still shut. 

“Why the stars?” Deceit asks. 

“It’s a ghost story,” Logan mumbles. 

“Pray, tell,” Deceit says. 

“You know how Thomas loves to look at the stars?” Logan asks. “Half of them are dead, yet we can still see them. They’re not really _there_ —they’re just ghosts of what once was. Like us.”

Deceit’s hands freeze. 

“Explain,” he says curtly, the honey vanishing from his tongue. 

“We aren’t _real,”_ Logan says. “We’re just . . . projections. Echoes of who Thomas is, was, and could be. If that’s not a ghost, I don’t know what is.”

“In that case,” Deceit says sweetly, “why do you try so hard to pretend that _these”—_ he slides his finger down the base of Logan’s left wing—“aren’t real?”

“They’re illogical—“

“ _You’re the illogical one,”_ Deceit hisses. 

Logan jerks up from Deceit’s lap. 

“What did you just say?” Logan whispers. 

In a flash, Deceit is wearing Logan’s clothes and skin with pure white wings stretching out from his back. 

“I’m Logan,” Deceit says in a cold mockery of Logan’s voice, “and I refuse to accept the existence of my own _limbs_ because it doesn’t fit with my outdated worldview.”

“That’s not the same th—“

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth,” Deceit-Logan says. 

Logan’s hands clench because how dare he, _how dare he,_ try to use _Sherlock Holmes_ against Logan. 

“Get out,” Logan says in a low voice. 

Deceit’s face twitches. 

“Fine,” he snarls. “Don’t come crying back to me for grooming sessions, though, because I am _done_ with your shitshow.”

.

A year passes. True to his word, Deceit does not come back. 

Logan tries to manage his wings at first. But they twitch away from his hands, no matter how hard he tries to keep them still, and the feather slip into bloody dust in his hands. 

He stops trying. 

It really only hurts when he lies on his back or when Roman and Patton hug him. It’s fine. He can manage. 

(Virgil hugs him one time, and Logan cannot hold back a flinch. Virgil never does it again.)

He’s fine. He’s managing. 

(His wings are constantly trying to burst through his skin, and Logan can feel the mess of bone and muscle and feathers writhing under the surface. His back practically screams with pain.)

Logan wakes up in the morning to bloodied sheets and nail marks down his back. Logan changes shirts two or three times a day. 

Logan finds himself snapping, twitching, glowering, but he _can’t stop himself._

Deceit’s words keep replaying in Logan’s head: _You’re the illogical one. You’re the illogical one; you’re the illogical one; you’re the illogical one you’re the illogical one you’re the illogical one you’retheillogicaloneyou’retheillogicalone_

Logan wakes up to a bed full of bloody feathers. 

He inhales shakily. 

He knows he’s hurting Thomas, but he doesn't know how to _stop._

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth._

Logan’s mouth begins to tighten. He has to do this. _He has to do this._

He hates it so much, but personal feelings have no place with logic. 

.

“Go back to your astronomy tower,” Deceit says coldly. 

Logan’s doing his best to look normal, to look like he’s in control, but he can’t stop the tremor in his hands. 

“Please,” Logan chokes out. “Please, I’m sorry; I’ll tell them, I swear—“

Deceit mutters something under his breath about being a pushover before ushering Logan in. 

“Bed,” Deceit says. 

Logan all but collapses onto Deceit’s mattress, shakily undoing his shirt. Deceit’s fingers begin to tenderly probe Logan’s back, and Logan holds back a yelp. 

Deceit starts to recite curses. They’re vile and filthy but somehow like elegant poetry as they flow out of his mouth. 

Trust a liar to make swear words sound pretty. 

“Let them out for me, darling,” Deceit says. 

“I don’t—I don’t think I _can—“_

Deceit’s hand brushes against a particularly tight knot (shattered bone, snapped feathers,twisted ligaments), and Logan _screams._

Deceit’s fingers still upon this spot. 

“Here,” he says. “This is where you—“

A familiar pull lurches in Logan’s stomach. Thomas. 

Logan stumbles to his feet, grabbing his shirt. He’s swaying. 

_“Get back here,”_ Deceit hisses, taking hold of Logan’s arm. 

“I have to go; Thomas is—“

Deceit takes on Logan’s features and glares. 

“Ssssstay,” he says before sinking out. 

It won’t work. Logan has changed since Deceit last saw him, and the other Sides are already on guard thanks to the whole Patton Situation. 

They’ll figure it out. Or worse, Deceit will convince Thomas to do something that’s good for Thomas but bad for everyone else. 

Logan shakily buttons up his shirt. He messes up the second one but doesn’t notice until halfway through. 

He has to button again. And again. And again. 

His fingers can’t stop trembling. 

.

By the time Logan makes it up there, the others have already figured out that Deceit was masquerading as Logan. The look Deceit gives him is one of concern but masked with fury and disdain.

He benches Logan the entire trial. Logan is unsure whether to feel grateful or annoyed.

With Deceit, it’s always a little bit of both.

Logan endures the mockery of a trail, ignores the growing tension in Thomas’s mindscape, and forces himself to sit up straight. At times, he envies the liquid grace with which Deceit moves and stands. It’s as if his bones can _bend._

Logan sincerely hopes such is not the case, as flexible bones are typically a sign of osteomalacia.

The trial finally ends, much to Logan’s relief, and he escapes from the aftermath as soon as he can.

Deceit helps him unbutton his shirt. Logan’s hands are shaking so much that he can barely tug the sleeves off his arms.

“What the _hell_ was that?” Deceit demands.

“I would have been miserable either way,” Logan says dizzily. “Would you rather me be miserable and alone?”

“Oh, _yes,_ Logan, that was _definitely_ my motive for telling you to rest,” Deceit snarls. “Dear stars above, it’s like you have never even _heard_ of self-preservation.”

“Thomas needed me,” Logan says, aware of how weak his voice sounds right now.

“Do you _hear_ yourself?” Deceit yells. “Look at yourself. _Look.”_

Against his will, Logan looks at his reflection in Deceit’s full-length mirror. He looks . . .

Sick. Sweaty. Utterly nauseous.

“They don’t deserve you,” Deceit says, so softly that Logan can barely hear.

Deceit pushes Logan’s hair out of his eyes and presses a quick, quiet kiss against Logan’s forehead.

 _What?_ Logan thinks blankly.

Deceit doesn’t _do_ soft. Deceit snarls and hisses and spits and takes takes takes. 

Quick as a flash, Deceit’s face is back to his usual mask of cold arrogance.

“Your wings, Logan,” Deceit says.

Logan thinks about pointing out that Deceit can let go of his face any day now, but then Deceit would actually . . . let go. As one does.

Not that Logan _wants_ Deceit to hold him. Obviously. That would be illogical.

The door swings open, and Roman bounces in, Virgil shortly behind.

“Oh, my _soul,_ what a trainwreck today!” Roman starts to say before freezing. Virgil stares with undisguised horror.

Logan is shirtless. And shaking. And paler than a Cullen vampire. Not to mention the fact that Deceit is practically holding him up by his chin.

With cries of rage and panic, Virgil and Roman both launch themselves at Deceit and Logan. Roman slams Deceit onto the ground, his sword pressed against Deceit’s throat, and Virgil drags Logan away by the arm.

“Stop it,” Logan says. “Just--both of you need to--”

“He attacked you!” Roman yells.

“He didn’t--”

“You’re _shirtless,”_ Virgil shrieks, his voice unnaturally high.

“Yes,” Logan says. “So I am. We . . .” Deceit lies on the floor, his shoulders shaking slightly. Clearly, he is going to offer no help. Logan scrambles to think of something that explains their proximity and Logan’s lack of a shirt. “We were copulating.”

“WHAT?” Roman and Virgil scream as one.

Virgil adds a stream of foul expletives at the end of his query.

Deceit’s shoulders shake even harder as he laughs, no longer trying to keep quiet.

“Well,” Logan says awkwardly, “technically, we were _about_ to copulate. Obviously, we had not finished, since you interrupted us.”

“You--you foul snake!” Roman bellows, brandishing his sword. “How _dare_ you seduce nerdy Wolverine?”

At this point, Logan is worried that Deceit is going to induce abdominal pain with the way he’s wheezing.

“Didn’t . . . seduce him,” Deceit gasps out between heaves of mirth. “Just . . . right place . . . right time . . . _He_ seduced _me.”_

He dissolves into more hysterical laughter, which only serves to fuel Roman and Virgil’s ire.

“Logan would never!” Roman snaps.

“Yeah,” Virgil says. “He has higher standards than that.”

Tears begin to stream down Deceit’s face.

“Um, since when are you experts on my . . . copulation standards?” says Logan. “Anyway. Could you two leave? So we could get back to . . .”

His voice trails off, so Deceit offers his input: “I’m gonna bang pretty boy like a drum.”

“Snare rimshot,” Logan adds helpfully.

Virgil screams, covering his ears and fleeing from the room.

“Virgil!” Roman calls, terror edging his voice. “Virgil, _no,_ you can’t leave me!”

Roman jumps up from the floor and half-runs, half-falls out of the room.

Deceit laughs for a full two minutes. Every time he starts to calm down, he just looks at Logan and falls apart once more.

“You’re so _stupid,”_ Deceit says, but it’s in his Lying Voice, and he’s clearly amused.

.

“Why do you care?” Logan asks later, lying face-down in Deceit’s bed in the midst of a sea of bloody feathers.

Deceit straightens and plucks, bandages and binds. 

“Well, I believe in self-preservation above all else,” he says distantly. “And clearly, you and I are the only ones with brain cells. Thomas would be dead in a day without our help.”

“Thomas would be a raging psychopath without Patton, a shameless douchebag without Virgil, and a depressed couch potato without Roman,” Logan says. “Are you going to fix them when they bleed?”

“Thomas would take care of himself more easily if he were a raging psychopath,” Deceit says sweetly. “And I’m _sure_ you and I could devise plans to get him out of his bed each morning, looking presentable and fresh, without Roman’s help. We can keep Virgil, though.”

The problem with Deceit is that one can almost never tell when he’s lying.

“In addition,” Deceit adds, pulling Logan up to a sitting position, “I have . . . a personal stake in this.”

Logan should have known.

Deceit peels his gloves off, one by one. Snake scales cover his hands, much more prominent and animalistic than the ones on his face.

“You’re one of Thomas’s favorites,” Deceit says. “A golden little Light Side. If Thomas accepts that _this”--_ his hand trails down Logan’s wing--”is normal . . .”

Logan catches Deceit’s hand in his and inspects it closely. Deceit’s skin feels exactly like a snake’s, and Logan’s mind flashes back to the time at the zoo when Thomas threw a temper tantrum because the worker there made him let go of the snake to let other kids have a turn.

“I’ll tell them,” Logan says quietly.

“So you’ve said,” Deceit says sardonically.

“It has come to my attention,” Logan says, “that I have been behaving illogically.”

.

Thomas is, quite naturally, attempting to keep Virgil and Roman from each other’s throats when Logan comes rising up.

“You _left_ me!” Roman accuses.

“You left, too!” Virgil retorts.

“ONLY BECAUSE _SOMEONE_ CRUELLY ABANDONED ME--”

“Guys,” Thomas says, laughing slightly, “guys, what are you even _talking_ ab--”

The words trail off from Thomas’s lips as he notices Logan for the first time. Roman and Virgil stare, their mouths forming this disgusting, dented circle shape of shock.

“Hi,” Logan says.

“You have wings,” Thomas says distantly.

“Yeah,” Logan says awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I was going to tell you, but I built up this whole reason _not_ to in my head and--”

But Thomas is already reaching out with a beatific smile as he strokes Logan’s feathers.

“Logan,” he breathes, “they’re _beautiful.”_ He looks Logan in the eye, his eyes wide. “I love them.”

Logan’s brain short-circuits. Deceit looks at him smugly like _ha! I told you so_ is written across his forehead in neon letters.

“All thanks to me,” Deceit says smugly. “I _told_ you that I’m the queen of self-care.”

Virgil, Roman, and Thomas stare at him with shock.

Thomas is thirty years old, and Logan has finally shown him his true self.

“Wait . . .,” Virgil says blankly. “So you mean . . . you guys _weren’t_ copulating?”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or come chat with me on tumblr! :D darrinya.tumblr.com


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